


The Egyptian

by savorvrymoment



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-06 14:54:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5421233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savorvrymoment/pseuds/savorvrymoment
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>~He sits by the fountain and bathes, doing his best to wash away the smells of the brothel, of sex, and of her.  Somehow, he still goes to sleep with a strange hint of Egyptian spice clinging to his skin.~  Old one-shot moved from livejournal.  Written for kink-bingo in 2011.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Egyptian

It's not the sort of thing Malik discusses with anyone that comes through the Bureau. It's not that he's ashamed—he's knows that he is not the only man who has sought comfort in the arms of a nameless woman in the absence of his wife. And he doesn't fear what the others will think—let them say what they will. He has already been brought down enough in the eyes of his peers. Raised in name maybe, a Dai now, yes. But unable to fight, unable to walk the streets during the day without ridicule over his crippled frame, unable to escape the looks of pity from his brother assassins.  
  
So let them say what they will, he thinks, letting his one hand drift casually down the side of the woman stretched out next to him. She smiles seductively at him, stretching underneath the thin, see-through gown she wears. She's a beautiful creature—her golden-brown skin, lush black hair, dark eyes under fluttering lashes. If she's repulsed by his amputated arm, she doesn't show it. Only offers herself up to him, subservient, her body pliant under his hand.  
  
“What is your name?” he asks her, watching as she cocks her head a bit.  
  
“Hala,” she tells him quietly, and he's not sure whether to believe her or not. She's possibly protecting herself. He wouldn't blame her. Still, he repeats the name to himself, toying the the ties on the front of her gown. “What is your name?” she asks him eventually, her accent lilting. She doesn't sound from Jerusalem, but sounds as if she came from farther West. Egypt, maybe.  
  
He finally pulls the ties loose from the front of her gown and pushes the fabric aside to reveal her breasts, her nipples peaked prettily. He rubs a callused hand over one, and leans down to mouth at her neck. Decides it's safe to mumble, “I'm Malik.”  
  
“Malik,” she repeats to herself, gasping as he moves his mouth down to her breast and bites down. She slides a hand through his hair, nails scraping against his scalp, then says, “You are an attractive man, Malik. I wish all clients came to me looking thus.”  
  
Malik barely resists saying something snide, instead takes a dusky nipple in his mouth, nipping at the pebbled tip. Her hand clenches in his hair, nails digging in, and so he raises his head away from her, replaces his mouth with his hand. She's slick with his spit, and he plays with her breast absently, toying with her. “Do not flatter me with lies,” he says. “I know what I am.”  
  
Her eyes flick down to his stub of an arm at his words, her expression guarded as though not sure how to respond. He can recognize that he's put her on unsteady ground, and so she treads lightly, “I have seen much worse.”  
  
And maybe she has. He has it bound and bandaged as always, hidden away even though the rest of his body is naked. He doesn't like to look at it any more than anyone else does. And it's as he's looking away from her face, admiring the long stretch of her legs revealed under the gauzy gown, that he feels her hand close on his left shoulder.  
  
He jerks away on instinct, watching her with a snarl, but she meets his gaze openly, unafraid. “Maybe it isn't my place to ask,” she says, rolling slowly to the side as she speaks. The motion makes her body move sensuously, the gown slipping even further off of her shoulders, and it softens the next question. No doubt her intention. “But what caused you to lose your arm?”  
  
Malik speaks without thinking, hidden away in the back of a brothel away from his life and problems. “I lost it in battle,” he tells her, watching as she reaches to touch his shoulder again. He allows it this time.  
  
“Battle? You're a warrior, then,” she says, smoothing her hand even farther down until she begins to brush against the bandage. He pulls away from her then, stops her from touching him further. She moves then instead to touch his chest, following him as he rolls to his back. “Were you fighting in the holy wars?”  
  
Malik smirks to himself, not answering immediately. When he doesn't respond to her question, she leans down to kiss along his stomach, trailing her fingers over his hips. He watches her, eventually says, “I suppose one could say that.”  
  
She doesn't ask him for clarification. Instead, she moves to mouthing at his hip, her hand reaching out to play with his erection. When she does speak, it's to ask, “Do you want my mouth? Or do you want my...?”  
  
He doesn't bother answering her with words. Instead, he tangles his fingers up in her hair and firmly guides her face to his cock. She doesn't ask for clarification then, either. She just takes him in her mouth, letting her tongue dance along the underside of his cockhead, and cups his balls in her hand, massaging softly.  
  
He groans quietly, fisting his hand tighter in her hair, and for a moment he lets himself forget.  
  
~*~  
  
Against all logic, Altair is there when Malik gets back to the Bureau.  
  
“How did you get in here?” Malik demands, staring down at where the man is stretched out on his makeshift bedding by the fountain. Altair glares back at him, the man's sword and dagger laid aside and out of reach, but his throwing knives are still firmly attached to his hip. His hood is pulled down low, shielding his eyes, though whether to hide himself from the moonlight filtering through the open ceiling or from Malik's hard stare, Malik doesn't know.  
  
“The same way you did,” Altair bites back. “I climbed up the ladder, popped the hatch on the ceiling, and let myself in. Since you weren't here to lend a hand.”  
  
Malik feels his lip curl, but doesn't reply. Instead heads toward the back toward his own quarters.  
  
“You reek of a whorehouse,” Altair comments before Malik can get out of earshot. “I suppose I don't have to ask where you've been.”  
  
“I suppose you won't ask, either,” Malik tells him sharply, not bothering to look over his shoulder. “Lest I have to tell Al Mualim that I found you stabbed to death just outside the bureau. What a shame that would be.”  
  
Malik gives Altair a moment to answer, but when he's greeted by only silence, he lets himself past the hanging drapes into his quarters.  
  
He dreams of the beautiful woman in the sheer, flowing gown. Hala, the courtesan.  
  
~*~  
  
He goes back to the brothel again later that week under cover of night, dressed only in his plain dark breeches and a white tunic. He leaves his robes behind, a way to disguise himself and avoid questions. He attracts enough attention as is with his mangled arm, and there is no need to add to it by wearing the robes of a Dai.  
  
The lounge of the brothel is crowded and overheated when he enters, filled with scantily-clad women entertaining men of varying important. Malik recognizes a few men of the guard, the Templar symbol branded on their belts. He walks quietly past, breathing in the thick smell of incense in the air, and spies Hala draped across a bed of pillows in the back corner.  
  
She is alone, but obviously doing her job. Her gown is of the sheer material he'd seen her in previously, pulled aside to reveal the curve of her breast, the bronzed skin of her thigh. Her hair is pinned up off of her neck in a seductive fashion, and the soft sheen of sweat around her collarbone making her look divine.  
  
He hadn't come tonight for her, but he finds himself striding toward her corner nonetheless.  
  
She glances up at him as he approaches, and a soft, sensual grin spreads across her lips as she recognizes him. “Malik, was it not?” she asks, raising a hand and gesturing him to join her.  
  
“Yes,” he answers, but does not sit down with her. Instead, takes her hand and pulls her up to her feet. “Come with me.”  
  
“Of course,” she says, following him quietly to the back rooms—rather, one room sectioned of with sheer, hanging drapes. It provides little privacy, every noise and word easily overheard by anyone passing by, but Malik finds it better than rutting like a common animal in front of fellow men.  
  
Once away from prying eyes, he pulls her gown from her shoulder and kisses her hard, all teeth and tongue. She moans into his mouth, seemingly pleased even if she's trained to act the part. He bites at her lip, and walks her back to the cushions and pillows laid out on the floor.  
  
Her skin tastes good, like some sort of spice and honey, and he kisses along her jaw and neck, savoring the sounds she gives him. He thinks of his wife, then gives up with that fantasy, staying in the moment as they fall into the bedding on the floor. It's soft against his skin, soft like her gown and her body and her smile. She sits up to grin at him seductively, toying with the ties on her clothing.  
  
She pushes the gown off of her shoulders, letting him look at her fully as she reveals herself to him. She's a beautiful woman, a curved figurine, and he pushes himself up to sit as well, so that he can touch. He runs his hand down her clavicle, feels that soft sheen of sweat under his fingertips, and then moves to cup a breast in his hand. She moans encouragingly, pressing into his hand, and so he squeezes, massages, plays with the nipple under his thumb.  
  
“How do you want me?” she purrs at him, letting one of her thighs fall between his legs, against his groin. He pushes up against her lazily, the feel of fabric against his erection satisfying for now, and tells her...  
  
“No rush.”  
  
She watches him warily, as if waiting for the other shoe to fall, but then finally settles down against him. She rolls him onto his back, undressing him with gentle hands as he kisses and touches her body. “You aren't like the others,” she tells him absently, pulling his tunic over his head.  
  
“No?” he says, starting to remove his boots and breeches as she leans back in the pillows. She watches him with a sly smile, and runs a hand over her breast.  
  
“No, you aren't,” she says.  
  
He expects her to elaborate, but she doesn't, just continues to touch her body. It's obviously all for show, the touches lingering and sensuous, fingers dipping down into her sex for a moment before pulling back up over her stomach. He watches her for a while before motioning her closer, and she doesn't ask permission then, she simply straddles him and begins rubbing herself against his cock.  
  
It's good, her sex hot and wet against him, and he immediately wants more. He pushes himself up a bit, having to lean on his stub of an arm in order to use his good hand, and guides his dick to her. She takes him easily, a soft moan leaving her lips as she settles down on him, hips wiggling to make the angle comfortable.  
  
The act itself is quick, dirty, and utterly satisfying. She thrusts herself on his cock, skin slapping against skin, her breasts bouncing with the movements. Her hair falls down from its pins, long and black as night, hanging around her shoulders and framing her face. Malik digs his fingers into the side of her hip, hard enough that she will probably have bruises, and curses absently at no one in particular. He comes with his head thrown back over a pillow, unable to keep the guttural moans from leaving his throat.  
  
He keeps his thumb pressed up tight against her clit even amidst her protests, and she finally comes for him with a soft cry of pleasure. He lets her go after that, lets her fall next to him amid the pillows, and listens to the sounds of their harsh breathing.  
  
“You are different,” she finally says again, still panting so that her chest rises and falls with each breath.  
  
“Maybe,” he says, thinking of his wife and what she would say if she could see him now. He finally decides it something he can't dwell on.  
  
~*~  
  
Thankfully, there is no one around when he returns to the Bureau.  
  
He sits by the fountain and bathes, doing his best to wash away the smells of the brothel, of sex, and of her.  
  
Somehow, he still goes to sleep with a strange hint of Egyptian spice clinging to his skin.  
  
~*~  
  
“You keep coming to me,” Hala says the next time he lies with her. “Do you not have a wife to satisfy you?”  
  
“I am a long way from home,” Malik says simply, afraid to elaborate, unable to tell who might be listening.  
  
“Ah. But you do have a wife, then,” she assumes.  
  
He contemplates lying, to her and to himself, but then says, “Yes.”  
  
If she has an opinion about this, she doesn't voice it. She simply brushes her knuckles over his chest in a gentle, lazy pattern. His body is still thrumming a bit in post-orgasm, and this is the first time he's laid down next to her for any length of time afterwards. He feels exhausted.  
  
“I'm a long way from my home,” he repeats, somehow feeling the need to explain himself to her further. “I haven't seen the woman in months.”  
  
“Do you miss her?” Hala asks, still quiet and nonjudgmental. Malik sighs.  
  
“Yes, I do,” he says. Though at this point, he's not sure whether he actually misses her, or just misses Masyaf in general.  
  
She lays her hand flat out on his chest, over his beating heart. He wills himself to stay awake, because this is not a safe place to drift, not even for a second.  
  
“You were not born here, either,” he says, just to speak. “I can tell.”  
  
She quirks a lip at him, and answers, “Few of the whores are.” But then, before he can open his mouth to rephrase the question, she says, “I was bought from a trader in Cairo as a child. That's all I know.”  
  
_Slave_ , he realizes vaguely. He grabs her hand, hard, and tells her, “You deserve to be free. All men and women deserve to be free.”  
  
She's silent for a long time, long enough that he lets go of her hand. But then she finally says, “I would not have expected those words from a holy warrior.”  
  
“Maybe I have said too much,” is all he can come up with in response.  
  
She hums at him, lifting herself up and moving to straddle his middle again. She is not a dainty woman, her hips and breasts beautiful curves on her body, and her weight across his pelvis is hot and grounding. He groans quietly to himself, rocking up against her. “Then I'll forget you said it,” she tells him, voice pitched low and sultry.  
  
He grabs her with his one hand, throwing her off of him and onto her back. It's more forceful than it needs to be, but she seems to have grown used to him, his mannerisms, and his shortcomings. He crawls back over to her, awkward on his one hand, and she wraps her legs around his waist as he situates himself. “One more time,” he says, more to himself than anything else.  
  
“Whatever you want,” is her answer, and she moans like the whore that she is when he takes her.  
  
~*~  
  
It's not long after that night when Altair comes to him, requesting the map to Arsuf. And from there, things move too quickly.  
  
The damage at Masyaf is great. Malik hurries to get there in time, to help Altair in what he's already figured out is a disaster, but nothing has prepared him for the mind-control and subsequent death of his people.  
  
After Al Mualim has been killed and the Apple secured, Malik searches for his wife amidst the survivors. And when he doesn't find her amidst the survivors, he begins the heartbreaking process of looking through the deceased. He finds his wife's body there, a stab wound in her chest, and wonders how many people he can lose and still stay sane.  
  
Regardless, he puts her body on the pyre with the others, and stays by Altair's side as they begin to rebuild. It helps him forget, if not to heal.  
  
~*~  
  
The two women ride up to the gates to Masyaf a few months after Al Mualim's fall. They are still in the process of rebuilding, and the gates have been barred ever since the incident. The only thing that keeps the two visitors from being killed on sight is their gender.  
  
Malik is with Altair in the fortress when one of the novices comes to them with the news, saying that the women seek shelter within their walls. Altair frowns, mumbling that they have barely enough supplies for their people as it is, but he leaves his work nonetheless to head out to the gates. Malik follows him, more out of curiosity than duty.  
  
He doesn't recognize her at first, even once he has tailed Altair through the gates and stands before them, flanked by guards on either side. Both of the women's faces are wrapped with cloth, their mouths and heads covered to protect them from the heat and winds of the desert. The horses underneath them are calm, listless, obviously tired from a long journey. Malik wonders briefly at the fact that these two women have ridden by themselves across the kingdom to get to their doors.  
  
But then, as Altair greets them, the women pulls their veils away from their faces, and Malik recognizes her immediately. Hala, weighed down by stress and exhaustion, but still as beautiful as ever.  
  
He watches as her eyes slide over to him briefly, a odd expression on her face as she takes in his entitled robes, but then her eyes are back on Altair. “Greetings, ser,” she says, demure. “We come seeking refuge; we've ridden from Jerusalem.”  
  
“A long way,” Altair notes. “What has happened in Jerusalem that has forced you to flee.”  
  
But Malik is sure he already knows. He steps in, trying to keep his voice as neutral as possible, “I know this woman. She is a slave.” Then, “Or was a slave...”  
  
Hala nods, her eyes slipping back to Malik. Altair glances over at him as well, but Malik can't quite read his expression. “Yes, we have run,” Hala says. “I can describe our reasons, if you feel we need to. But know that--”  
  
“There is no need to explain your freedom,” Altair says, cutting her off. “It is just that Masyaf is not currently in its best condition.”  
  
“My brother is an assassin within your fortress,” the woman beside Hala speaks up. “That is why we have come here. We were hoping there would be room for family, and,” with a glance at Hala, “friends.”  
  
Another look at Malik, and then Altair asks, “Your brother's name?”  
  
“Sa'di,” she answers. “He will identify me, if you bring him here.”  
  
And Malik can tell that Altair is not thrilled about the situation, but he nods nonetheless. “I know the man you speak of. I'll have someone bring him down from the fortress.” Then, as he motions for the women to follow him inside, “I must warn you, we can't offer you much in our present situation.”  
  
“All we ask for is safety,” Hala puts in.  
  
“That, we can offer,” Malik assures her, and she offers him a tenuous smile as she rides past him and through the gates.  
  
~*~  
  
“I should have known what you were,” Hala says, leaning into the open doorway of his rooms. It's a bold move, to approach him alone on his own territory, one Malik would not have expected of a former slave. But her smile is soft and kind, nonthreatening. She doesn't actually step foot through the threshold until Malik beckons her in. “I must admit, I was shocked to see your face—and standing next to the Eagle of Masyaf, no less. You told me you were but a 'warrior'.”  
  
“I am,” he says, unable to keep from grinning as she smirks at him. “I may have withheld some of the truth, but it's unfortunately part of the job.”  
  
“I cannot fault you,” she says. “Jerusalem was awash with Templars. It was wise to keep your mouth shut.”  
  
“You know a great deal about us,” Malik notes.  
  
“You hear a great deal working in a brothel. You were not the first of the order to cross my path,” she says. Then, as though realizing her words, “I shouldn't stay, if your wife is with you...”  
  
It's a hedging statement, Malik can tell. A question as to whether his wife is present in his rooms, and a question as to whether she needs to leave. Malik sighs, and says plainly, “My wife has died.”  
  
She looks to floor, and answers quietly, “I am sorry.”  
  
“And I am tired of hearing that,” he says curtly. “I don't need your pity.”  
  
She nods once, and then turns to leave. She's as beautiful as she ever was, her hips swaying as she walks, and Malik feels a bit guilty for thinking that way, so soon after he's lost his wife.  
  
“Where are you staying?” he asks quickly, catching her before she leaves the room.  
  
She gives him a brief smile, then says, “The rooms by the gardens, with the other women. Find me there, if you need me.”  
  
It's an open invitation. Malik tries to convince himself that he isn't aroused by it, but he knows her body and knows the sounds she makes. He wonders absently if she'll take up with the women who roam the gardens, simply become a whore here instead of in Jerusalem. He finds himself hoping that she won't.  
  
~*~  
  
“She must have purchased many maps from you,” Altair comments one day as they sit outside the training ring, watching a few of the novices duel. It takes Malik a moment to realize who Altair is referring to, but when he follows Altair's gaze, he can see her standing with Sa'di and the assassin's sister. They're watching the training with interest, talking amongst themselves, and he thinks Hala looks happy.  
  
“That,”Altair says, the tone of his voice alone making Malik scowl. “That, or you bought many 'maps' from her.”  
  
“You are crude, Novice,” he says, resorting to old insults since he has nothing better to say. Altair chuckles at him.  
  
“She must have left quite the impression. And you, on her, as well,” Altair says, standing up and dusting his robes off. “She may no longer by selling her maps, but that is not to say she no longer possesses them.”  
  
“I did not ask for your opinion,” Malik says. And then for good measure, “And your riddles are foolish.”  
  
“I never said I was a poet,” Altair returns.  
  
“I'm sure every woman thanks you for that.”  
  
~*~  
  
He chooses not to approach her—he finds it inappropriate, considering their past. However, Hala comes to him eventually, maybe realizing he is never going to come to her. Or possibly, just tired of waiting.  
  
It's late, and he's dressed only in his breeches, sitting on his bedding. He'd bathed earlier with a bowl of clean water, just to wipe away the dirt and sweat of the day, and has pulled out a clean stretch of linen to wrap his crippled arm in. It's always a chore to wrap it like such, but he finds that if he doesn't, his clothes rub against it and cause it to become inflamed and painful.  
  
But then there is a knock at the door to his quarters, and Malik scowls, pulling the linen tighter around his arm. “Altair, go away!” he calls, assuming it is the other assassin. “Whatever it is, it can wait until morning!”  
  
But then his door creeks open a bit, and he sees Hala's face peek through, looking for him. She's still dressed from the day, her eyes lined with kohl and a pale-blue veil adorning her head. She gives him a soft smile once she sees him, apparently unperturbed by his state of dress, and says, “It is me. Hala.”  
  
He feels himself tense at the intrusion, and says, “What are you doing, woman? It is late.”  
  
She frowns a bit at the tone of his voice, but closes the door behind her still. “I was speaking with Maria. We were just down the hall from here, and I thought of you as I stood to leave,” she says, approaching him with graceful steps.  
  
He doesn't have anything to say, and he watches, a bit flabbergasted, as she kneels down in the bedding next to him.  
  
“Maria is a kind woman. Strong at heart,” she says, and then reaches for the linen now held uselessly in Malik's hand. He surrenders it without realizing what she's doing, but then as she takes it and continues wrapping his severed excuse for an arm, he can't help but jerk away. She frowns at him, following so as not to drop the wrap from her hands, and asks, “Sorry, is it painful?”  
  
“No,” he says, then realizes that's a lie. “A bit,” he amends, watching as she rearranges the cloth in her hands.  
  
“I'm sorry, I'll be more careful,” she says, handling him gently as promised. He watches her, wondering why he doesn't pull away again. He hasn't let anyone see him like this, no one except the physicians, and that he dreads. It's a weakness and a sickness—one she doesn't seem to mind in the least.  
  
“Hala,” he says, and she waits until she has tied the linen up and tucked it on his arm. Then looks up to meet his eyes. “Why are you here?”  
  
“I--” she starts, then falls silent. A strand of black hair falls from underneath her veil to frame her face as she looks down to the floor. “This place is new to me. Freedom is new to me,” she finally says. “I know I'm surrounded by people, but I'm—I'm scared. And lonely.”  
  
She lays a hand on his chest, running it down over a nipple to rest on his stomach. Malik swallows, and says, “You aren't required to do this.”  
  
“I know. I _know_. And that is more liberating that you could ever understand,” she says. She closes her hand into a fist, her nails dragging against his skin, and his stomach muscles tighten on reflex. “But you're kind, and understanding. And maybe a whore is a whore—but it was good. Pleasurable. I still remember how it felt. How you felt.”  
  
She's flushed scarlet in embarrassment or arousal either one, he can see it even through the bronze of her skin. He can feeling his own skin heating as well, his cock beginning to harden between his legs. “You're no longer a whore,” he says, half to her and half to himself.  
  
“Do you still find me desirable?” she asks, and as if to answer her own question, lets her hand wander to the front of his breeches and cup his half-hard cock. His cock twitches against her hand, a reflexive action, and he lets out a harsh breath through his nose, turning his head slightly to face her.  
  
She closes the distance to kiss him like she's drowning, one hand coming up to grip the back of his neck, the other staying put between his legs. He moans against her lips, spreading his legs to give her more access, and his knee and calf brush against her side. She simply straddles his leg in return, her hand massaging him firmly, and says, “Please.”  
  
He pushes her over onto her back, taking a moment to look down at her. She's breathing heavy, her breasts rising and falling with the motions, and when she sees him move his hand to the clasp on his breeches, she's quickly pulling her skirts up to her hips. She looks beautifully obscene, lying there waiting for him with her legs spread, open and wanton. He grunts, pulling his breeches the rest of the way off and then sidling back up to her.  
  
“Please,” she repeats again as he rocks back on his haunches and grabs her by one hip. He pulls her halfway onto his lap, then grabs the other hip, pulling again. She wraps her legs behind his back, digging her heels in and dragging herself the rest of the way, until she's seated across his thighs, laid out in front of him. “Please,” she repeats, flexing herself, and he shakes his head, reaching out to run his hand over her sex.  
  
“Don't beg,” he tells her, stroking her from ass to clit a few time before spreading her lips. She's pink and wet, and he slides two fingers into her, curls them on the way out. “You don't need to,” he elaborates, letting now slippery fingers slide up to rub at her clit. Her thighs tighten around his middle, and she lets out a little cry.  
  
He plays with her for a while, teasing, enjoying the sounds she makes and her body once again within reach. But he is a man, his cock rubbing against the inside of her thigh as she squirms in his lap, and he finally takes his fingers away from her, takes his cock in his hand. She gives a little whimper at the loss of contact, but as he presses his cockhead to her, spreading his precome around, her whimper becomes a soft moan.  
  
He watches himself as he takes her, watches the way she stretches around his cock, the way he looks seated inside her. She reaches down between her legs and touches where he's penetrating her, spreading her lips and then bearing down on him. He grunts, laying his hand on her pelvis, and starts thrusting. Short and shallow snaps with his hips, her fingers still playing between them.  
  
“Malik,” she breathes absently, eyes closed and head thrown back over a pillow, veil tossed askew. “Malik, ugh... feel so good.”  
  
He pitches himself forward, then, catching himself on his good arm and burying his face in her neck. He slides out with the movement, but she lines him back up and cants her hips just so. He slides back into that wet heat without effort, and he gathers her up to him, kissing at her neck, before he starts thrusting.  
  
He comes shortly after that, her warmth and scent and voice overwhelming. He can feel that pleasure uncurl from the base of his spine, and his balls pull up tight, and he groans his orgasm out into her shoulder. He can hear her crying out as well, somehow distant through the haze of his own pleasure, and can feel the way her thighs tighten around him as he presses his hips into her, wanting deeper.  
  
He pulls out after and collapses next to her, feeling practically boneless. He can hear her breathing next to him, heavy in the otherwise silence, and he reaches his arm out for her blindly. His hand finds her veil, and he pulls it from her hair with a gentle hand.  
  
“You aren't like the others,” she says quietly, mostly to herself.  
  
“Don't speak of others,” he finds himself saying, a snarl in his voice. “They're in your past.”  
  
She meets his eyes—dark brown to dark brown—and gives him a soft smile. “True,” she says. Then, “I will be yours, if you will have me.”  
  
“Let's not rush,” Malik says, letting his fingers run through her hair. “We have time. And we've both been through much.”  
  
She nods in agreement, and says, “Then at least, may I stay here with you? Tonight?”  
  
“I would not allow you to leave,” is all he tells her.  
  
And he wakes up the next morning to the smell of Egyptian spice on his pillows.


End file.
